Sherlock put his fork down and stood up, not caring that his sheet was falling off of him.
He stood in front of John and leaned down, kissing the site of the wound, gently, layering soft kisses and lightest of licks upon it.

"My brave, brave soldier." He said softly, giving it one more kiss before looking into John's eyes. He knew the man wouldn't want to talk about it, and he would never pry. He may open up about it in the future, and if he did, Sherlock would be ready to listen. But for now, he hoped that this was enough.